


Devil's Treat

by Veretta



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blasphemy, Child Abuse, Christianity, Corruption, Even if they're still faithful, Extremely Underage, F/M, Fucked Up, Incest, It least I hope it came across as slow, Masochism, Mind Break of sorts, Nuns, Orphans, Pedophilia, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shotacon, Slow Burn, Statutory Rape, Straight Shota, needy, this is very much blasphemous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:27:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27035659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Veretta/pseuds/Veretta
Summary: A protective nun develops a new connection with her orphan boys at the same time as a new, really troubled kid arrives. What a coincidence.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character, Original Underage Male Character/Original Female Character
Comments: 3
Kudos: 77





	1. Newcommer

**Author's Note:**

> Frankly, this is pretty fucked up. If you like corruption, nuns and shotacon, both dominant and normal, this is the story for you. Not that any of you should be reading anything like this. God bless you all.
> 
> It's PWP but at the same time has a slow build up. So there, I hope I informed on your reading decision.
> 
> Also, this is chapter one of, I don't know, three? So let me know what do you think.
> 
> If you want to write something you want to see, I can't stop you, but I can't promise you anything either.

When I became a nun, I found it a release and at the same time the start of something wicked. Outside the tea and the charity, there was something so perverted under the clothing that neither me nor the sanctity of Our Father. For a while I thought that it had to do with the fetishization of the religious, devoted woman that plague our world, but there’s more than that.

I am head of the daycare in Saint John's Orphanage, ending up there after years in the nunnery, my own path in life after turning Christian in my teenage. My family disowned me after that, since they said they didn't break from the "religious nonsense" in order to let their children end up straight back there, so even if I regrated it I had nowhere to go. Not that I would like to be anywhere else.

Contrary to what many people may believe, taking care of abandoned or at-risk children is not a burden at all. Certainly, a struggle, but that’s the spice of life. These kids are my own safe space. They love me and I love them. We listen to each other. Even the babies can show such gratitude that it's hard, if not impossible, to even think on giving up on them. They are a gift from the Lord and they should be treated as such.

Going out, to the world, is the real nightmare. No matter how hard I try to hide it, my figure has somewhat transformed itself into a haunting thing. My breasts and specially my backside are always showing their substantial outline through any clothes, any habit, I put on, no matter how loose. 

My body has the shape of sin, and people notice. 

I feel their sharp, animalistic eyes fixated on me, men and women, and their desires are not hard to imagine. The images of violence and carnal violation roam at every step outside these walls and do not leave until I'm back, tucking in my boys, returning to their innocence.

\- - - - - - 

When little Mark arrived at our orphanage, winter came with him.

Wind swirled around a coated child guarded by two police officers. While sitting in a reception bench, waiting to be taken to a play room, his feet didn't even touch the ground. He waited there as the police and social workers spoke with Father Lawrence. I stood next to the new arrival, asking the questions you would ask a young kid. I introduced myself as Sister Celine. He was quiet, but his answers came off as very respectful and educated.

His voice was barely audible and very feminine, I had to get really close. Behind his immaculate small beige shirt came the smell of sweat and oatmeal soap. In his drown out words he mentioned that he missed his toy car collection and his mother. He pronounced those last words shakily.

When Father Lawrence explained to me that he was six it was a shock. He looked much younger. I wouldn't have given him more than two-years-old. But that surprise died out with the new one.

That woman, the mother that the beautiful boy Mark missed so much, molested him. A woman successful in her administrative career, family and even in body, since she had one that would make a demure woman such as myself blush with envy. But outside the success, there remained a husk of a woman who didn't wanted to be fair to her husband, who didn’t want to cheat on him with other men, not even with college-aged boys that cheekily desire matured, married women. 

She instead decided to have sex... to rape... her infant son.

Before I realized what was happening, tears were streaming through my cheeks. The accusations against her piled up as they came from multiple sources. The first instance was an old couple in the beach, two years ago, who talked to the police about a woman who was constantly kissing a really small boy on the lips, but when they found out that they were mother and son, they dismissed it as a probably cultural thing.

The second one was recent, merely of days ago, and a bit more severe. A teacher in their school caught her forcing a kiss on him when she went to pick him up from the kindergarten. The report said kiss, but the description of the witness was more along the lines of "she turned his head in a way that I thought would break his neck and started... making out with the kid. She was about 20 feet away and I could still hear those disgusting wet kissing sounds. She was practically blowing the kid's tongue!".

That second incident would have led to an investigation if not for the fact that she was arrested in the local mall a few hours later. The poor 6-year-old Mark was found standing right in the door of an open bathroom cubicle, his gaze distant, when a woman came in. Loud female moaning noises echoed from said cubicle and, inside, there was his mother, ripping her expensive clothes in order to violently grapple her breasts with one hand while masturbating furiously with the other. 

Jesus.

The whole thing it’s just so… disgusting. The witness reported that the face of his mother was distended into one of inconceivable lust, only describable as that of someone who had lost her humanity for earthly pleasures. Mark’s mother kept rubbing her clit in such a way that would draw nothing but pain until she arched her back like a possessed, an orgasm shaking her right in front of her child and a stranger, a spray of female ejaculate flying all over. 

She also thought appropriate to start pissing as the orgasm rocked her body.

The pathetic, whorish frame of Mark’s mother laid there, her eyes rolled over her skull and a delighted, clenched-toothed smile painted across her mouth. Beside her own fluids, she was also covered in something so thick that the witness didn’t recognize it at first, but the smell finally broke through, and the poor stranger said that “It was semen. The strongest, most virile musk I’ve ever smelled! … not that I’d know too much about that”.

“My beautiful boy-cock finally shot a big, fat load on mommy’s face! God, my son is such a STUD!”. 

The broken figure of the mother was dragged outside the bathroom, covered with a blanket, by the security staff. The quickly ran through the mall, but not fast enough to stop her from declaring in front of the consternated public one last, nerve-wracking statement:

“Please, let me one last time… I need to swallow whole a stream of that boy cum. HE OWES ME. Please, at least let me gargle in his piss one last time. PLEASE!”

Right then and there, poor 6-year-old Mark, barely conscious, bursted into tears.

\- - - - - - 

Mark seemed to act normal for a child his age, despite the looks. When we took him to a Game Area, he went straight to the car toys, playing in a little corner for a while. He even talked to another kid, Julian, a year older than him, in an actual friendly conversation.

After everything I’d heard, it was a relieve. Kids’ spirits, their wonderful souls, could be hard to rebuild after such an experience. Despite Mark’s appearance, he was a strong kid.

However, when it came time for dinner, Mark didn’t seem as composed. He was pale, worried and refused to take a single bite from his food. Not even dessert. After that, we introduced him to movie-night and asked him for his favorite cartoon, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and played one of the new ones. But during the entire runtime his eyes remained lost among the shadows, glued to somewhere in the middle of the screen and the carpet. May God help my little boy.

After that, I accompanied the child to bed. A large room with 12 finely crafted bunk beds, of which Mark occupied the last one to the left. The room was a mess of young male voices and small bodies running amok, ranging from light 2-years-old to heavier 10-years-old. With a single clap, every sound lived for a second longer until all were replaced with attentive looks.

“It’s time to pray. Close your cute little eyes and raise your hearts.” My deep breath was echoed through the room, then started. “Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy Name…”

I heard Mark struggle with the Lord’s Prayer, but he was trying. I then sung the Hail Mary!, a horrid mistake since they got stuck with the idea of singing. Any resemblance of a peaceful night of sleep disappeared for a second, until lights went out and in less than a minute all that remained was the calm breathing of children. 

There was a chair right next to Mark’s bed, and there I sat, removing the veil. The first nights may be rough for new kids, especially with harsh stories.

“My mom used to leave the door open. She would come at night.” Said Mark

“I know”. I bit my lip and formulated an inappropriate question that kept bothering me for some reason. “When did it started?”

There was a brief moment of quiet filled with regret.

“As far as I remember.”

“I’m sorry, Mark.”

“In my second birthday mom licked my peepee in the theater.”

“Oh, God.”

A knot formed in my throat. How long did this kid suffered like that?

“My… my mom had these videos.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mark.” I interrupted. “You don’t have to talk about all that.”

Silence fell once again.

“Are you gonna stay?” asked the boy, after a few minutes.

“Sure thing, Markie. I wouldn’t want any bad dreams to come for you, so I’ll protect you.”

All he did was smile, and was quickly carried by the smooth hand of slumber.

The dark was cold. A storm was brewing, and my own fatigue made the thunder in my mind fuse with those in reality in a cacophony of omens.

She was arrested about three days before his arrival, covered in a bizarrely thick semen, almost with the consistency of jelly. Two years ago, his mother was kissing Mark in a public beach. Could her son, who struggles to count to five, have spilled out that much semen, that thick? 

What, in the Lord’s Name, drives a woman to commit such horrid acts? 

I can’t even imagine how it started. Maybe she realized too early that her son was growing quickly, that life would leave her behind eventually, pictured the Empty Nest and acted on it. Or maybe…

Maybe it was just lust. She saw a young boy crawling around, unable to speak a word against his mother, her own flesh and blood, and the Devil did the rest. It could have started at arriving early from work, kissing her son, their lips accidentally crossing paths. Then she would kiss him, just like she did to her father, in order to show him how much she loved him. After that, more grown up, slurping kisses.

How wrecked, how ruined must a kid’s body be in order to start ejaculating at age six?

A strange heat started to brew inside my saintly mind and trickled into my devilish body. It fused itself with the vile disgust that held my throat, warmth that I refused to accept as my own.

I was not thinking far enough. Those thoughts had him being too old. 

He probably wasn’t even conscious about his own existence when he had his little boy crotch drenched in saliva. God Almighty, he could be mere days, mere hours old when her tongue caressed his toothless mouth for the first time. Mark seems like the kind of baby that it’s rough while breastfeeding, must have been a turn on. 

Imagine her baby licking a pussy. All that fighting back, moaning and futile attempts at biting must have felt… unique.

A healthy diet of mother milk and cunt-slop. Her own boy-toy trained from day one, with a baby dick easy to jerk-off.

So easy to please. So easy to dissuade. So easy to rape.

When I came back into my senses, it seemed like a red mist cleared up. “Holy God, what a nightmare!” I thought, convincing myself that the wet feeling on my underwear, coating my habit, was a bit of piss that escaped while dreaming, along with the hot sweat on my torso.

Mark was awake.

“Sorry to wake you, Sister Celine.”

“You didn’t, sweetie. Can’t sleep?”

“No.” he seemed annoyed and embarrassed about it.

“Had a bad dream?”

“No.” 

His eyes meet the blackness that covered the cyan walls. At that moment, he became a puzzle: his face reflected the factions of an underdeveloped six-year-old, but no sentiments, no pain nor weakness.

“Sister…”

“Um?”

“Are you my new mommy?”

My heart skipped a beat.

“I-I…” 

My heart raced with fear. It’s not the first time that question has been asked. And the answer was ‘yes’. I couldn’t say no to this child, right? Along fear came something worse: excitement. 

“I am.”

Mark smiled. If that smile had satisfaction or malice, is still an enigma.

“Thank you, mommy. I think I can sleep better now.”

“Well, don’t worry.” I answered, trying to calm myself. “Anything I can do? Tell you a story or bring you water?”

“Hmmm” for a second, he delivered as if trying to solve a world crisis. “Warm milk, please.”

“Sure think. I’ll be right back.”

The chair cheeked when weight shifted. The night was dark, no stars. The voice of Mark didn’t shift to any emotion when he spoke.

“You said you would stay.”

I glanced at him, confused. He gave a similar look.

“Promise it’ll take just a second. I’m just going to the kitchen for the glass of….”

“I just said I wanted milk.”

His eyes scanned my body with something I finally recognized. An animalistic desire.

“There’s plenty here.”

Suddenly, a rush of desperate anxiety crawled under my skin. Despite there being no reason for such sensation, it felt like a last stand.

“Mark, that is not appropriate for a young man.”

“Please.” His voice, so feminine, so vulnerable. “I need it.”

I sat at the edge of his bed, touched by the singular light in his pupils. More than a reflection, it seemed like a window. As I got closer to him, to his wonderful odor, the wetness of my habit increased. My habit made a squishing sound as I kissed his forehead. 

The heat returned. Something like a shadow covered my sense of reality, and I could just smile. With a sensation came a realization: my torso wasn’t covered in sweat. I was just lactating. 

From the first sight, my body knew. It morphed itself into a mother for a six-year-old, as if I was always meant to do. 

He was replacing his incestuous pedo mom with a God worshipper, depraving her into a milk cow of a little boy.

My garments fell in that room filled with children, with a six-year-old in the forefront of my obscene breasts. I sat in the edge of his bed and he came closer. My tits covered half his body. _He was minute_. I've never desired a man in 36 years and now I'm giving God up to let a child make me his cream maiden. Just when he was about to fellate my engorged, leaking nipple, I stopped him.

“No touching yet. What do we say when we are about to eat?”

“Hmmm, oh. Bless us, oh Lord…”

I grabbed my nipple with my fingers and squeezed. A stream of hot, sweet milk was shot straight to the kid’s mouth. A disgusting moan filled the room, a groan hungry for pleasure. I am a pig-slut. 

As if starving, my hand looked for his little cock.

"Show it to me, Mark. I'm not your real mommy until you show me your cock."

“…and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive.”

Good Lord. It was so _fucking childish_. Hairless, underage, impure. I grabbed the cocklet it with my thumb and middle finger and started to jerk him off. He needed it, God, he needed it and he can’t be wrong. He's your child, isn't he?

“Through Thy bounty, through Christ our Lord we pray.”

His kiddie dick got hard, conditioned after years of the worst of humanity. The most taboo -incestuous, pedophilic debauchery. A drop of precum leaked and danced among what seemed like smegma. The smell was so strong, nauseating.

I wanted it on me.

I followed through the prayer, pushing his little head upon my sinful bosom.

“Amen.”


	2. Punishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coming to terms to what our darling Cecile has done.

When I returned to myself, my vision blurry and the cacophony of rain greeting my waking, dawn was still distant.

My back barely could hold me in place as I tried to stand, the little chair once again shrieking against the wall of static silence that reign when a stormy night hugged the Orphanage’s skies. There was some instinctive urgency growing within but my mind, dawdling to keep up with the current state of the world, could not pin point exactly what was wrong with me.

So, this is what hangover must feel like. Drunk on my own tiredness.

When my own gastric acid flooded my throat, the synapsis finally snapped, making me stumble towards the child’s accompanying bathroom, on the other extreme of the chamber. Stealth and visceral, repellant sensations do not make a good combo, but God knows I tried anyway. Thank for boys refusing to cover the seat, otherwise there would be a grandiose avant-garde splatter for the next morning, or for me to lose valuable hours of regret cleaning it up.

Not that there would be any lack of any of it: regret, disgust, lack of thought. All of those drove my night.

I was about to, once again, blame some kind of depraved vision on my sleep for the accelerated pulsations of my heart, for the violent shivering, for the desperate, almost willful amount of forgiveness I was asking of the God that created me, and to who I disappointed.   
I laughed to myself, vile still dripping from my mouth. Disappointed? Light way of putting violating one of his more loved creations.

But all those feeling just accentuated the one haunting truth: the rapid walk, praying and breathing just made the soreness of my bust painful.

Carefully listening for any child wondering out of his bed -not a chance we would have functioning locks in the bathroom-, my habit slowly fell to be folded neatly into my arms. A light but persistent sensation of sticky humidity infused the holy clothing, the smell milky and undoubtedly fresh. There was no bra.

With the black garments exposing my skin, a grotesque image revealed itself. My breasts, as big as ever, retaining their round and their oh-so-right small sogginess that accompanies their organic nature, now showed a huge discordance with themselves. One of them, pearly, became a hypnotizing view: the bright, sparkling impression that the lower part up to the fold displayed reflected the fact that it was completely soaked of outlandish amounts of milk, leaking from my own, still virgin, body. The nipple, almost unnaturally big, exhibited a regular expulsion of milk; not in drops nor petty little strings, but in generous broken blasts of creamy, bubbly white liquid that made them seem almost phallic.

The other breast represented a more harrowing visage. All attention given to the substantial shape would lead inevitably to the center of its meaty mass: all around the milk-duck laid a surreally large bruise, comparably warm, that added to the usual soft sensation of the breast-meat a sultry impression. The nipple, understandably darker given the rest of the bosom, almost seemed to palpitate on its own. Each push of blood within the vessels, each attempt from my tit to pump out whatever non-existent remanent of milk came as a sting of pain. Whatever lustful imaginings a man would take from a breast, they were now replaced by the notion that the flesh seemed to have been attacked, _mauled_ , by some wild beast, rather than being used for the lewd breastfeeding a 6-year-old, traumatized enough to have a sexual appetite.

My now awake memory escorted my hand as it traveled across the assaulted body, digging my nails where his mouth made its dent. As distorted as it may appear at first, for the knowledgeable the bruise painted my tits was nothing but a grateful love bite. I felt the sticky rests of his drool.

My thoughts kept wandering towards those moments, so recent but caught in a dreamy mist of uncertainty. But I refused to indulge such disgusting memories, even if my body reacted to it in a different manner. Every second that flashed into my unwilling mind was a gruesome, sex-filled flicker of misery, with all his sucking… the smell of unwashed prick… the drool that dripped from my violated breast, maimed by just a little boy…

I grabbed my battered tit as if involved by muddy, nostalgic memories and, with no thought, lift it to my mouth, slurping the spit that a little kid left, as a distant kiss. I sucked hard and it hurted so good.

A jet of some transparent girlfluid hit the floor, somehow dripping through my panties.

My breast fell to its usual place right as a second round of vile crept into my esophagus. Almost willfully, the praying never stopped.

\-------------------------

Sister Eliza came right as the kids were waking to relieve me from my turn. A new day without sun.

Our eyes meet, and a sense of worry shifted her expression. There was no need to wonder why, as I felt my eyes inflated, with deep grey eye bags that almost covered my cheeks. Not even the worst nights, of sickness or crying, had left me in such a state.

I excused it in Gilbert, a chubby 3-year-old, eating too much candy before bedtime and being a little nuisance, along my own worries with Mark. Not a hard think to do, as Gilbert’s had woken up with a hyperactive demeanor.

Mark, however, didn’t seemed to notice -or care- about my pitiful appearance, smiling as he got to see me right before I left to my room. Anyone could have said that everything wrong, all those years of torture and his own sinful behavior, were gone from his little uncomplicated mind after a full night sleep.

I introduced him to Eliza, a mature lady that rounded third age. She’s what a nun really is, tall, of undying faith and matronly, her eyes excelling an authority further outside from this world. The wrinkles of her years only solidifying her daunting presence. Even at Eliza’s age, her posture, as thin as it was, remained impeccable, retaining a mystical beauty in her turquoise-colored eyes, in her angular factions and within the soft, commanding tone she addressed the kids.

Not unexpectedly, fright shined in the eyes of the newcomer. As ever, he argued that I said I would stay, but the promise of a quick return made him change his mind, even if it was more resignation that anything. Poor kid. But when he came to terms with the new situation, his answer came unnecessarily loud, his voice raising over the rest of the children and, yet, masterfully not appearing as a scream:

“Ok, mommy.”

Turning back was of no need, as I sensed the eyes of my superior slowly burning my nape. I stuttered as my vocal cords refused to let out a coherent sentence. In the end, it was Eliza who cared to speak in something other than babblings:

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. She’s a good… Sister for you. You don’t have to call her mommy.”

“That’s right, Markie. You don’t have to worry about me. Mommy’s not here.”

Mark’s expression glittered. His tone was almost naïve, and acted as if Eliza never spoke.

“When will she be back… Sister?”

“She… won’t.”

Turning to Sister Elize, I made a little bow and walked out of the room.

Tachycardia is something that I’ve experienced a lot during my teenage years, particularly during any PE activity. Even today, all the commanded exercises from the convent had to be specialized for my case. But any horrible experience paled in comparison with the sudden rush of blood-pumping tormented me on my walk to my room: every step was a fast but shaky, every breath lacking.

I needed to calm down. I had to rest. I had a turn in the baby ward.

There was no reason for the fuzz my body was making. Kids called me mommy all the time. Excusing it was easy: he saw some kids calling me that and he just followed along. Social coercion, Mark obeying his need to fit in with his peers. The theming was just unfortunate based on his own history. Even if he said otherwise, there was no reason for the others to believe the overtly damaged newcomer over the good ol’ Celine.

“I… I’m thinking like one” stuttered the voice in my head, a sprinkle of despondency beating like a migraine, in rhythm of my heart’s paranoid drumming. Once again, sickness shook the hourglass of my body, wishing to expel any thought from itself. Like an old creed, that sentence kept repeating on my brain without acknowledging what that _one_ was. 

There would be a big lie if I said that I wasn’t well versed in the topic of child abuse, both sexual and not. Even if there was a zero interest, a nun working on an orphanage must have some education on the matter. A lot of children bring with them stories of abuse, of molestation, and mostly weren’t even from your usual male suspects, but rather women. It’s just that most children… don’t know it yet. Women aren’t as blatantly rapists since they use emotional engagement over blackmail to hide their intentions. They make you think they’re in love with you, until years later the children realize that of course that 45-year-old lady, who hurt you because she was lonely and loved your cute pimple, never really cared about you. 

Mark’s mother was an exception. She was an all-out child rapist, slowly corrupted by her own demeanor. And I was following her path on the same kid.

When I got to my room, I immediately fell to my knees with a loud *thud* next to my bed and pleaded for wisdom. For the answer to this encroaching fear.

“God please, please don’t let darkness upon my judgement.”

The Shepard casted a pitiful look on my demeaned figure. Ask I speaked, sobbing crashed my body, like a welting storm.

“Almighty One, care for the soul for this one, your sheep.”

“God will not save unworthy sinners.” said Sister Eliza from some moment hidden in the past. Oh, good Lord, was I ever unworthy. I asked again: why would a woman, in all her clarity, would choose to commit dreadful acts?

“Omnipotent Master, forgiveness is only yours.”

_I’m thinking like one. I’m thinking like one. I’m thinking like one._ Like a what?  
 _I’m thinking like a pedophile._

“King of Kings, forgive this no-good whore.”

A shock of disgust came as the words Mommy echoed through my head. His voice, almost commanding, like showing dominance, elevating itself on the room. Exposing her like some voyeuristic fantasy, as on itself a punishment.

“Lord of All, all I deserve is your filthiest punishment.”

Pedophiles deserve to be called out. To be pushed away from children, from society. From love. From God.

Pedophiles deserve nothing but death.

_I_ deserve nothing but death.

A dry snap clattered around, loud enough to be heard from the outside. It took a moment to realize it was my own open hand slapping myself across my cheeks. Another moment passed to realize that I was smiling at the pain, at the taste of my blood.

I deserved it. I deserve to be caught in the act of molesting a 6-year old and being dragged out by the hair. I deserved to be BEATEN. I deserved to be HANGED where everyone could see what an indecent sinner this Lord’s servant was. _Of course she sucks off kids! Look at her body! It was made with the shape of whore,_ they would say.

“Mother of God, strike this child molester with your wrath.”

As if… as if the mother was not the authority! Mark, pretending to know about life, about sex, calling me _mommy_ in front of everyone. He was a 6-year-old, his penis was still that of a 4-year-old. Lord, my 2-year-olds probably have bigger dicks! His vile hubris, as if he was in charge, as if…

“Good Lord, this filthy kid lover…”

…he was not the plaything. 

“…is not responsible for the cravings of her flesh.”

I stood and looked at myself in the mirror, across the room. Even from there, my clothes seamed wet. Firmly, I walked to my closet and took out an unused paddle, intended for misbehaving children. The bed sank on my weight, but didn’t made any sound, as anticipating what would come of it.

I took off my habit and my underwear, laying on my back naked and in a state I never intended. Bruised, torched by the taboo, a realization of being one of the lowest things a woman, a human being, could be. _I’m a **pedophile.** _

Over my head, the paddle darkened a moment of sunlight that filtered from the clouds. Only darkness is allowed in this room. A stream of the most hateful things was pictured by whatever synapses were left from the headache. And, as I opened my legs in the most immoral way like inviting an invisible devil to plunge into me, some obscene, forbiddingly pornographic images of the tormented 6-year-old, feeding on my newfound milk, flew by. With a swift move, the paddle tore the air and hit with excruciating force my expose, dry cunt. 

A shriek perverted the entire convent.

Then, I lift it again, with a tighter grip. I saw the red, swollen mess of my pussy lips, the palpitations of an awoken animal in need of survival.

Pangs of pain, greater that any would think, sank its fangs across my spine. For a second, weakened, the inhumane body of this woman froze. It hurt. I felt like dying. 

The paddle struck again.

The scream that followed was drowned by the continuous sobbing. For some reason, I alternated a laugh. 

Something hit my face. For a second, I thought it was blood, until I tried to lift the paddle once again. A sticky, transparent fluid was connecting it to my genitals. In an instant, I was soaked again.

Along the pain came the indistinguishable humming of pleasure. Sick sexual relish.

This time, not shaking once, the paddle came down three times in a row. Gritted teeth met the punishment, as hard as any other, but the cunt was only sore, indifferent. I hoped it’d never worked again. At the fourth one, my arms gave in and the paddle flew, smacking the floor far from my reach.

Surprisingly, I didn’t pass out. Trembling, my hands studied the area. Distended, deformed from it’s intended use. Absolutely covered in my own juices.

My mouth met my wet hand in a gesture far away from my reason. Bittersweet was the taste. It was not unpleasant and felt so dirty. I could’ve just laid there, feeding on my own degeneracy, for hours. The smell was delightful.

Imagine how much will a child enjoy it.

As I laid there, eyes glazed, the images of the event in all its sacrilegious glory became clear as water. A new youth seeking refuge, with his vigorous energy, slurping in the contents of a holy woman’s breasts like he’d never stopped doing it from his first day in this hellish world, as if me, a servant of The Lord, was really his overprotective mother to which these sinful endeavors meant everything. His hunger being infectious. A little body cradled in my arms, shaking as my hand intruded in his pijamas without second thought to how wrong, how it would distort his little mind further, to rub his 6-year-old penis with an improper lust. Not a sign of disgust or moral quandary in sight. A dick so small, so wrong that no woman could even imagine of bringing pleasure. To me it seemed like a saintly apparition.

And the disgusting words that sputter from my mouth, telling him that if I really were to be his substitute mother, after his real one betrayed his innocence beyond recognition, molestation was a requirement. Would he imagine that there’s no escape now? Or is sex now an escape, his coping after his incestuous mommy made dry orgasms impossible at his tender age, all in a mind still incapable of conceptualizing even a two-digit sum? Both were to delightfully twisted. 

The years of experience showed with his stamina, having to stroke his unwashed, dirty little cock for ten minutes before he started to thrust, looking for a release. What a waste it would be to waste a child’s cum. His seed. To get clogged up because of that thick smegma over his pisshole would be so painful to the poor soul. It’s probably hard enough to let out such thick semen, even more with that rancid obstacle. And he’s too young for such adult ventures, for a sick sexy child. So, I stopped, to his dismay. His eyes showed demonic desperation, biting my entire breast in reprimand. How good it felt. To be punished for punishing his precocious wants.

His slim kiddie dick inflated and deflated itself with his fat, unnatural ejaculate as I edged him for hours. He said that it hurt. 

And I answered: “Good”.

\------------------------------

The infirmary was a cozy little venture. A turquoise division with lots of pleasant artistic details, patterns in the edges of the wall and stained glass. A nice wood nightstand, one that smelled like peppermint and woodland, held a glass of water and a little bible.

Whatever reasoning they thought got me there was wrong.

A crisis, probably due to an involuntary quarantine, drove me to punish what I interpret were evil thoughts. A chair was besides me, and in there sat Elize.

“You know, I never expected such behavior from you, Sister Cecile. But it’s no wonder. You’re trapped in here with a bunch of old hags and children too young to held an interesting conversation.”

I laugh. I knew that if I tried to move, the abhorrent pain would come back.

So, I did. It was like having a cobra moving under the skin of my thighs, going up upon my crotch and nesting there, occasionally attacking my back and belly. Always biting.

“What a brave girl.” Said Elize, handing me over the glass of water with a look of genuine impression. “I could not have the guts.”

The cold liquid calmed, ever so briefly, the burning of my entire body.

“Mark was worried about you.”

“Hmmm.”

“Do you… do you think he’s dangerous?”

We shared a moment of silence, as I pretended to not know what she was talking about.

“For the other kids, I mean. He has sexual desires.”

Oh my.

“Why would you say that, Sister Elize?”

“Well, when it was his turn for bath, I saw he was not washing his… well, his penis. And it looked really dirty.” Her flustering, there was something lewd about it. “So, I told him how to wash it, but he said that only his mother could clean it, with her mouth. She had waited all that time to eat his penis filth.”

She stopped for a moment, trying to fill all the pieces for herself of what she had witnessed,

“He then said to me that it would be ok if I were his new mommy.”

Her composure returned after saying that, fleetingly, before I speaked:

“Well, are you?”

Her face contracted in disgust.

“It’s not funny, Cecile. You know I can’t force him to clean it.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make him clean. He’ll listed to me. You’ll see your reflection on his bell-end next time you peak on him. You can even smell it all you want after that.”

She, a Mother Superior, gave me a confused, worried, and grateful gesture. My words caved for a second before leaving her. Then, she said we could get together to watch The Exorcist.

And, as the afternoon gave way to the new night, I tasted once again my own juices, imagining a little boy crawling in my bed to eat them. It wasn’t Mark, it was Gilbert. His fat little body looking for a little treat and this puffy, beaten fountain just look oh so yummy. He’s a messy eater so his face will dig right through. Gilbert would eat pussy better than he can even walk. 

I could even take him out and eat the remnants of my own cunt-slop in front of all the children, making him gag on my tongue just because he’s so small. And no one would bat an eye. That was Good ol’ Cecile.


End file.
